


our instincts are the enemy.

by ohyellowbird



Category: Dreamer Trilogy - Maggie Stiefvater, Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Call Down the Hawk Spoilers, Canon Compliant, F/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-09
Updated: 2019-11-09
Packaged: 2021-01-25 21:13:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21362770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohyellowbird/pseuds/ohyellowbird
Summary: An alternate ending to the attic scene with Declan and Jordan in Call Down the Hawk.
Relationships: Declan Lynch/Jordan, Declan Lynch/Jordan Hennessy
Comments: 17
Kudos: 92





	our instincts are the enemy.

**Author's Note:**

> okay fine, maggie. i'm a declan stan now. are you happy?

“I’ll take you home,” Declan said. “You can come back for your car later. Okay? Is that okay?”

Jordan swayed in place, not looking at him but at the statue he kept hidden here. She should take inspiration from it and leave, put herself back into storage. She did not.

Instead, Jordan stepped into Declan, her touch against his chest asking for his eyes. Once they were hers Jordan pushed through a resounding swell of self-preservation to say, “Distract me from it?”

_From what?_ fell out of Declan’s mouth but of course he already knew: from the pull that dream things felt. His kiss landed neatly, accompanied by gentle hands around her arms, a practiced move that probably left girls named Ashley weak at the knees. Jordan’s name wasn’t Ashley--Jordan didn’t, technically speaking, have a name at all--and she wasn’t impressed. “Come on, pretty boy,” she breathed against his mouth, and then, after a beat to gauge her barb, they were moving.

Declan propelled her backward, his grip flashing tighter, until Jordan’s spine met with a vertical surface. Then his mouth was back; it behaved much differently, covered her own purposefully, his head angled in order to coax her into opening up for a velvet sweep of tongue. Jordan sighed, head tipping back against the support beam where he’d pinned her, both hands coasting up underneath the hem of his untucked shirt to feel out the diagonals of his ribcage.

His face was rough against hers, stubble making her lips buzz, testosterone peeking through his neutered facade.

“Still feeling restless?” Declan asked a few minutes later, checking in, his voice felt against her cheek, her jaw.

Jordan replied, “Yeah,” but they both knew she wasn’t talking about the impulse to reach a national park. Her nails scored Declan’s skin and he shuddered, testing teeth against her neck.

Their first date was purple and tonight felt pink, like the ripe insides of mouths. She realized now just how muted everything had been previously, all of the color in her life existed only in the canvases she hunched over.

For a few moments while they kissed Declan fumbled with the laces of Jordan’s corset, an admirable albeit futile effort. “Sod it,” she suggested helpfully, impatiently, and his hands immediately found better uses of their time. They burned down her sides, shackling around her trim waist to pull her hips in, their bodies touching everywhere.

Declan tasted like spearmint and coffee, though he hadn’t been chewing gum before. Jordan told him so, and he told her, “We could change that,” and snicked open the fastening on her trousers.

It was such a skillful proposition that she could only breathe out hot air and smile, reluctantly charmed.

Fifteen minutes ago Jordan saw rushing water behind her closed eyes. Now, she saw stars. Declan held onto her thigh, draped over his shoulder where he knelt on the floor, his mouth working at her. Jaw loose, tongue flat. His brow was smooth and his eyes were shuttered and his nose was a perfect arrow pointing straight forward from her viewpoint above.

The treated floorboards of the attic were dusty. His shins and her puddle of trousers were going to be filthy.

“You’ve officially smashed all of my assumptions about you,” Jordan snarked breathlessly, wrestling for a thread of control. She simply didn’t do things like this, not unless there were strings attached.

Declan’s eyes opened, dark eyelashes over light eyes. He didn’t say anything, only looked at her, but she could feel his smirk. His fingers pressed into the meat of her thigh as he sealed his lips over her clit

She came with their gazes linked and her hand carded into his ruined curls; meticulously landscaped before he’d gotten on his knees. ‘Declan,” she sighed blissfully, indulging in the way his name felt inside her mouth, indulging in the look that clouded over his expression when she said it.

He stood up after, palm flattening over his erection confined inside tailored slacks. Jordan let her own hand trail down his wrist to cover his knuckles, a slow grin spreading as he came closer. He let her make the decision to kiss him, to taste the coffee and the mint and the addition of _herself_. But when Jordan went for his belt, Declan shook his head, pulling back to look at her. “We should get you home.”

She laughed, a huff of breath through her nose. “I’m not going to turn into a pumpkin.”

“Maybe it’s past my bedtime,” he said, hips drawing away from her hungry fingers. Jordan’s eye roll was enormous.

-

Her coffee was cold but she pulled a sip from it regardless, redressed and waiting for Declan to drop down the ladder to his bedroom. If he didn’t want to get off, who was she to insist upon it? Looking too closely at his motivations for abstaining would sting, even in the fuzzy afterglow of her orgasm. (Perhaps he didn’t want _that_ from a dream. Perhaps he’d only entertained her at all out of pity, only wanted to paste over his initial reaction to finding out that she was not real with something more palatable; now it would be harder to find fault in his disappointment.)

On the drive back to McLean mansion, Jordan covertly watched Declan Lynch from the passenger seat of his Volvo for confirmation of this secret sentiment. But she quickly remembered that he was nearly as good as the Hennessey girls at hiding truth beneath the surface. He talked with her about art, and touched her leg, and repeatedly wet his lips as if to taste her, and when he dropped her off and she didn’t kiss him, he looked let down.

“Thanks for the ride,” she told him, airy and seductive, her own facade reinstated.

“Of course.”

They were no longer the Jordan and Declan from the attic; it was a failure of self-preservation, but she missed them. Walking up the long driveway to the front door, she felt pulled again, but not towards the Blue Ridge Mountains or Overlook 1. No, it was towards something much more worrying.


End file.
